Only those moments count, when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.
The history of ideas is the history of the grudges of solitary men.
A decadent civilization compromises with its disease, cherishes the virus infecting it, loses its self-respect.
Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?
Between Ennui and Ecstasy unwinds our whole experience of time.
Every word affords me pain. Yet how sweet it would be if I could hear what the flowers have to say about death!